


A Song to Hum (That Will Make Us Feel Alive)

by gilligankane



Category: Glee
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-21
Updated: 2012-09-21
Packaged: 2017-11-17 07:43:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/549207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gilligankane/pseuds/gilligankane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She has two gay dads.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Song to Hum (That Will Make Us Feel Alive)

Rachel stands at her locker, frowning at Quinn. “I understand that you’re trying to carefully tread water, moving back in with your mother, and all, but if she’s treating you any differently, because of your previous life choices, my fathers…”  
  
“Shut up, Berry,” Quinn hisses. “I’m not some charity case for your fathers to parade around. I’m trying to make things better, not  _worse_.  
  
Rachel nods diplomatically, because in ten minutes, Quinn will be sitting with her arm pressed against Rachel’s, leaning over to whisper in her ear about how ridiculous the new Science teacher looks in his clip-on tie.  
  
Maybe she’ll slide an ACLU card across the lab table, just in case.  
  
  
 _No one will tell her she did her best by trying._  
  
\---  
  
David Karfosky has Kurt cornered by the boy’s bathroom when Rachel leaves her English class, intent on using her ten-minute bathroom break to find that ‘ _Life of Lionel Richie_ ’ biography she’s been determined to locate.  
  
She narrows her eyes and changes her course of direction, reaching up and tapping Karofsky on the back, right between his shoulder blades. He turns around, sneering, and finally looks down, growling at her. “What do you want, Manhands?”  
  
Rachel frowns at his lack of originality. “I believe you are in direct violation of the Lima School District ‘No Bullying’ policy, David.”  
  
Karfosky laughs, his large hand coming down on top of her head. “Listen here, Half Pint,” he starts.  
  
It’s as far as he gets before she’s gripping his wrist and turning, forcing the back of his hand towards his forearm. His sneer slides into an ‘O’ before his eyes close in pain and he’s down on one knee, tears streaming down his cheeks.  
  
Rachel only pulls away when Kurt forcibly removes her hand from Karofsky, pushing her back a few feet while the hockey player curls up on the floor, cradling his wrist against his chest.  
  
Kurt stands in front of her with his hands on his hips, clearly waiting for an explanation.  
  
Rachel shrugs. “I excel at many forms of self-defense,” she says simply.  
  
“Of course you do,” she hears Kurt mutter as they move down the hall, the Lionel Richie biography becoming a distant dream. She’ll have to come back during lunch to get it.  
  
“My fathers are gay, you understand,” she says.  
  
Kurt rolls his eyes, peeling off to enter what Rachel assumes is his classroom and waves a hand casually over his shoulder.  
  
She is dismissed.  
  
  
 _No one says **’well done’**  for helping other people who can’t help themselves._  
  
\---  
  
“Oh, my apologies,” she murmurs as she backpedals towards the choir room door, already trying to mentally scrub the image of Santana’s hand sliding down the length of Brittany’s thigh out of her head.  
  
“God, Berry,” Santana groans, standing and straightening her Cheerios skirt, turning away for a moment to brush a loose strand of Brittany’s hair off her face, securing it back behind her ears. “You sure know how to kill a moment.”  
  
“I’m sorry,” Rachel says again.  
  
Brittany frowns at her. “You kill things, Rachel?”  
  
Santana scoffs. “She’s killing my sex drive, that’s for sure.”  
  
Rachel opens her mouth to apologize again, but Brittany frowns deeper and crosses her arms over her chest. “Rachel,” she says sternly. “Stop it. Santana’s sex drive is really, really important, okay?”  
  
Instead of protesting, which is what she desperately  _wants_  to do, Rachel nods. “I understand.”  
  
The brunette cheerleader eyes her warily. “You didn’t scream.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Quinn screamed,” Brittany says. “When she walked in here that one time and Santana was-”  
  
“Quinn screamed,” Santana cuts in quickly, shooting Brittany a look Rachel can’t read.  
  
Rachel smiles widely and shakes her head. “Oh, I am completely comfortable with same sex couples.” Santana sneers and Brittany frowns again. “I am,” she insists. “Love should not be constricted between two people because of their genders. It’s immoral and unthinkable that just because you both happen to have two X chromosomes that your obvious enduring bond of love be deemed unnatural.”  
  
Brittany blinks a few times.  
  
“I have two gay fathers,” she says, sighing.  
  
Brittany’s eyes light up. “Oh, I know that. We’re almost the same, you know? I have two happy parents too!”  
  
  
 _No one puts their hand on her shoulder to tell her it's okay when people don’t understand her._  
  
\---  
  
“Rachel?”  
  
The brunette lifts her head, furrowed forehead relaxing as she tries to figure out where the conversation has ended up. When everyone started talking about taking a field trip, Rachel decided to busy herself with reading over the coming week’s music selections. Queen was overused, especially after Vocal Adrenaline’s  _Bohemian Rhapsody_  but she supposed it was better than doing another Journey medley.  
  
“Yes, Finn?”  
  
Finn sighs and looks to Mr. Schuester for support on his field trip idea. “We were discussing going to Cleveland. To see the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame!”  
  
“And Museum,” she adds idly, ignoring Santana scoffing behind her. Rachel sits taller in her seat and grips the sheet music in her hands a little tighter, pulling the paper taut. “I’ll have to ask my fathers.”  
  
Finn nods and Glee continues as normal.  
  
  
 _No one tells her it would be an experience she can’t afford to pass up._  
  
\---  
  
She’s the last to leave the choir room, taking her time to painstakingly place each piece of music in a plastic sheet. Mr. Schuester hovers by the door, waiting to lock it behind her but she makes him wait. He sighs loudly when Rachel finally slides her arm into her jacket and turns the button lock on the bottom of the knob, holding it open for her to exit.  
  
“You did good today, Rachel,” he says, clearly for the sake of saying something as they walk down the empty hall together.  
  
Rachel smiles brightly. “Well, Mr. Schuester. I did ‘well’,” she corrects.  
  
He sighs again. “Right. Well, in any case, today was productive.”  
  
“It was,” she agrees. “Though, our altos went a little flat today, and the football players, mostly Noah, I mean, were not even participating in the choreography today.”  
  
“It’s a step in the right direction,” he argues, chuckling at his play on words. “Get it? Step? In the right…”  
  
“I understand, Mr. Schuester,” she says lightly, cutting him off. The heavy front door slams shut behind them as they step outside. It’s October, but it’s getting darker earlier now and the sun is already half-set in the sky.  
  
Mr. Schuester looks at the parking lot, frowning when his is the only car there. “Do you have a ride, Rachel?”  
  
She nods and checks her watch. “My fathers should be here soon.”  
  
He looks around the empty parking lot again, glancing at his watch. Rachel watches his shoulders tense and straighten and she knows he’s preparing himself to be the valiant teacher he thinks he is, and he’s going to offer her a ride home, as if it pains him to do so.  
  
Rachel decides to cut in before he can speak. “Really, Mr. Schue. I’ll be fine. They should be here soon anyway.”  
  
When he looks at her, a cross between hesitant and desperate to leave, she pats his arm amicably and smiles a little wider. “Go ahead. I’m fine. I’m sure you have things you could be doing besides waiting here because my fathers are running behind.”  
  
Mr. Schuester scratches the back of his head thoughtfully. “I do have Spanish papers to grade.”  
  
She smiles knowingly. “It’s fine,” she says again, nudging him gently down the stairs, sitting on the edge of the last step, tucking her skirt under her as she sits, crossing her legs at her ankles primly. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Mr. Schuester,” she says firmly, dismissing him.  
  
He nods one last time, walking towards his car, only looking back once when he gets to the door. She waves even when he pulls out of his parking space and rumbles towards the driveway, joining the mid-evening Lima traffic.  
  
She keeps waving until she’s sure he’s not turning around and coming back and then she stands back up, wrapping her coat a little tighter around her, clutching the books that don’t fit into her bag against her chest.  
  
Rachel checks her watch again: it’s just after five o’clock. If she walks quickly enough, she can make it home by six and won’t have to alter her nighttime routine.  
  
  
 _No one drives up next to her halfway home to apologize for forgetting to pick her up._  
  
\---  
  
She slides the key into the front door at 6:02.  
  
No one is waiting for her in the hallway.  
  
Rachel slides her shoes off quietly, placing them next to the door, straightening them so they’re pointing towards the front of the house. Her key goes in the glass bowl on the table by the mirror. She sighs at the mail scattered across the hall rug and arranges it carefully, flipping through it and sorting it: bills to be paid in one pile, bills that can wait, and junk mail in another.  
  
The ‘bills to be paid’ pile is brought into the kitchen and spread out on the table in order of priority. She turns the oven on, preheating it to 450° and taking a plastic-wrapped tray out of the freezer.  
  
“Vegan quiche,” she says out loud. “I think you’d like it.”  
  
No one says  _yes_  or  _no_.  
  
She pulls the checkbook out of the secretary in the corner of the kitchen, turning on the overhead light. The bills are easy: fill in the amount, sign them and put them in an envelope, sliding them into the mail slot for pickup the next morning. By the time she’s finished with the electric and the water and the heating, the oven is dinging and she slides the quiche in on the third rack, going into the living room. She turns the television on and draws the curtains.  
  
It’s loud, too loud, maybe, but the deafening sound of bombs exploding – she never changes the channel or the volume; never even moves the clicker from the reclining chair she never sits in, turning on the television manually instead – relaxes her and after a few minutes, she stops wincing.  
  
“Just be glad I’m not sitting with my face pressed against the screen,” she says, smiling at the recliner. “I’d go blind  _and_  deaf.”  
  
No one laughs at her joke.  
  
Twenty minutes into a movie she isn’t really watching, the timer goes off and she sits down to dinner, dolling out three plates. She spreads the newspaper open, being careful not to tear the slightly off-colored pages. B3, the local section. She pours over an article on New Directions, smiling fondly at the picture of the club on stage in their black and red outfits, grinning.  
  
She turns to B4 and chews a little slower, reading the title of the article that takes up half the page a few times before taking a delicate bite of quiche.  
  
Rachel could recite the story, if asked.  
  
Two men from Lima, in Allen County, driving home; a car approaching the wrong way on a one-way street; a drunk teenager behind the wheel; tires squealing; a crash; ambulances and blood and limp hands hanging off of stretchers; a distraught girl standing in the entrance of the hospital with a policeman’s hand on her shoulder, suddenly alone.  
  
She swallows the last bite of quiche, gathering the three plates on the table. Her head shakes from side to side when she scraps the other two portions into the trash, tying the bag and putting it by the back door to be taken out later.  
  
After her shower, she combs her hair out and sets up her camera, picking a song at random to sing for her nightly MySpace video.  
  
No one claps from the doorway when she finishes.  
  
Rachel lies in bed for a few minutes, staring at her ceiling, clutching a t-shirt in her hands, wringing it every time a car turns onto the street, its headlights lighting up her room. She turns on her side, reaching into her nightstand drawer, pulling out the copies of the letters she’s written, with her Aunt Ida’s signature forged at the bottom.  
  
No one shakes their head, disappointed that she would lie.  
  
Aunt Ida thinks she’s with Shelby. Shelby thinks she’s with Child Service. Child Services hasn’t followed up on her move to Aunt Ida’s.  
  
No one asks, because no one actually knows.  
  
She sobs quietly into her father’s t-shirt, the scent of Old Spice drifting in and out as she exhales unsteadily, murmuring  _’Daddy’_  and  _’I’m sorry’_  and  _’I love you’_  and all the things she didn’t get to say while she was too busy on stage.  
  
Rachel rolls over again, throwing the papers to the ground and watching them flutter away uselessly, like all the wasted times she bragged about her fathers even when they weren’t here to brag about anymore.  
  
She chokes back another sob and lies in bed perfectly still, willing – not for the first time, not for the last – that the door will creak open and her fathers will be standing there, shaking their heads at themselves for forgetting to say goodnight.  
  
She waits.  
  
And waits.  
  
No one comes to kiss her goodnight.


End file.
